by Nora Roberts
It gave her a glow of success—perhaps not the flash she felt on completing some spectacular dish—but a definite glow. She found that in a different way, it was equally satisfying.
And it was unpardonably annoying to be told, after the completion of a particularly long and successful negotiation, that she should take a little nap.
“Chérie.” Monique glided into the storage room, just as Summer hung up the phone with the butcher, bearing the inevitable cup of herbal tea. “It’s time you had a break. You mustn’t push yourself so.”
“I’m fine, Mother.” Glancing at the tea, Summer sincerely hoped she wouldn’t gag. She wanted something carbonated and cold, preferably loaded with caffeine. “I’m just going over the contracts with the suppliers. It’s a bit complicated and I’ve still got one or two calls to make.”
If she’d hoped that would be a gentle hint that she needed privacy to work, she was disappointed. “Too complicated when you’ve already worked so many hours today,” Monique insisted and took a seat on the other side of the desk. “You forget, you’ve had a shock.”
“I cut my arm,” Summer said with strained patience.
“Fifteen stitches,” Monique reminded her, then frowned with disapproval as Summer reached for a cigarette. “Those are so bad for your health, Summer.”
“So’s nervous tension,” she muttered, then doggedly cleared her throat. “Mother, I’m sure Keil’s missing you desperately just as you must be missing him. You shouldn’t be away from your new husband for so long.”
“Ah, yes.” Monique sighed and looked dreamily at the ceiling. “For a new bride, a day away from her husband is like a week, a week can be a year.” Abruptly, she pressed her hands together, shaking her head. “But my Keil, he is the most understanding of men. He knows I must stay when my daughter needs me.”
Summer opened her mouth, then shut it again. Diplomacy, she reminded herself. Tact. “You’ve been wonderful,” she began, a bit guiltily, because it was true. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all the time, all the trouble, you’ve taken over this past week or so. But my arm’s nearly healed now. I’m really fine. I feel terribly guilty holding you here when you should be enjoying your honeymoon.”
With her light, sexy laugh, Monique waved a hand. “My sweet, you’ll learn that a honeymoon isn’t a time or a trip, but a state of mind. Don’t concern yourself with that. Besides, do you think I could leave before they take those nasty stitches out of your arm?”
“Mother—” Summer felt the hitch in her stomach and reached for the tea in defense.
“No, no. I wasn’t there for you when the doctor treated you, but—” here, her eyes filled and her lips trembled “—I will be by your side when she removes them—one at a time.”
Summer had an all-too-vivid picture of herself lying once again on the examining table, the tough-faced doctor over her. Monique, frail in black, would be standing by, dabbing at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to scream, or just drop her head between her knees.
“Mother, you’ll have to excuse me. I’ve just remembered, I have an appointment with Blake in his office.” Without waiting for an answer, Summer dashed from the storage room.
Almost immediately Monique’s eyes were dry and her lips curved. Leaning back in her chair, she laughed in delight. Perhaps she hadn’t always known just what to do with a daughter when Summer had been a child, but now… Woman to woman, she knew precisely how to nudge her daughter along. And she was nudging her along to Blake, where Monique had no doubt her strong-willed, practical and much-loved daughter belonged.
“À l’amour,” she said and lifted the tea in a toast.
It didn’t matter to Summer that she didn’t have an appointment, only that she see Blake, talk to him and restore her sanity. “I have to see Mr. Cocharan,” she said desperately as she pushed right past the receptionist.
“But, Ms. Lyndon—”
Heedless, Summer dashed through the outer office and tossed open his door without knocking. “Blake!”
He lifted a brow, motioned her inside, then continued with his telephone conversation. She looked, he thought, as if she were on the last stages of a manhunt, and on the wrong side of the bloodhounds. His first instinct might have been to comfort, to soothe, but common sense prevailed. It was all too obvious that she was getting enough of that, and detesting it.
Frustrated, she whirled around the room. Nervous energy flowed from her. She stalked to the window, then, restless, turned away from the view. Ultimately she walked to the bar and poured herself a defiant portion of vermouth. The moment she heard the phone click back on the cradle, she turned to him.
“Something has to be done!”
“If you’re going to wave that around,” he said mildly, indicating her glass, “you’d better drink some first. It’ll be all over you.”
Scowling, Summer look a long sip. “Blake, my mother has to go back to California.”
“Oh?” He finished scrawling a memo. “Well, we’ll be sorry to see her go.”
“No! No, she has to go back, but she won’t. She insists on staying here and nursing me into catatonia. And Max,” she continued before he could comment. “Something has to be done about Max. Today—today it was shrimp salad and avocado. I can’t take much more.” She sucked in a breath, then continued in a dazed rambling of complaints. “Charlie looks at me as if I were Joan of Arc, and the rest of the kitchen staff is just as bad—if not worse. They’re driving me crazy.”
“I can see that.”
The tone of voice had her pacing coming to a quick halt and her eyes narrowing. “Don’t aim that coolly amused smile at me.”
“Was I smiling?”
“Or that innocent look, either,” she snapped back. “You were smiling inside, and nervous breakdowns are definitely not funny.”
“You’re absolutely right.” He folded his hands on the desk. “Why don’t you sit down and start from the beginning.”
“Listen—” She dropped into a chair, sipped the vermouth, then was up and pacing again. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate kindness, but there’s a saying about too much of a good thing.”
“I think I’ve heard that.”
Ignoring him, she plunged on. “You can ruin a dessert with too much pampering, too much attention, you know.”
He nodded. “The same’s sometimes said of a child.”
“Just stop trying to be cute, damn it.”
“It doesn’t seem to take any effort.” He smiled. She scowled.
“Are you listening to me?” she demanded.
“Every word.”
“I wasn’t cut out to be pampered, that’s all. My mother—every day it’s cup after cup of herbal tea until I have visions of sloshing when I walk. ‘You should rest, Summer. You’re not strong yet, Summer.’ Damn it, I’m strong as an ox!”
He took out a cigarette, enjoying the show. “I’d’ve said so myself.”
“And Max! The man’s positively smothering me with good will. Lunch every day, twelve on the dot.” With a groan, she pressed a hand against her stomach. “I haven’t had a real meal in a week. I keep getting these insane cravings for tacos, but I’m so full of tea and lobster bisque I can’t do anything about it. If one more person tells me to put up my feet and rest, I swear, I’m going to punch them right in the mouth.”
Blake scrutinized the end of his cigarette. “I’ll make sure I don’t mention it.”
“That’s just it, you don’t.” She spun around the desk, then sat on it directly in front of him. “You’re the only one around here who’s treated me like a normal person since this ridiculous thing happened. You even shouted at me yesterday. I appreciate that.”
“Think nothing of it.”
With a half laugh, she took his hand. “I’m serious. I feel foolish enough for being so careless as to let an accident like that happen in my kitchen. You don’t constantly remind me of it with pats on the head and concerned looks.”
The way he said it had her pulse fluctuating. “I’m not an easy person to understand.”
“No?”
“I don’t always understand.”
“Let me tell you about Summer Lyndon, then.” He measured her hand against his before he linked their fingers. “She’s a beautiful woman, a bit spoiled from her upbringing and her own success.” He smiled when her brows drew together. “She’s strong and opinionated and intensely feminine without being calculating. She’s ambitious and dedicated with a skill for concentration that reminded me once of a surgeon. And she’s romantic, though she’ll claim otherwise.”
“That’s not true,” Summer began.
“She listens to Chopin when she works. Even while she chooses to have an office in a storage room, she keeps roses on her desk.”
“There’re reasons why—”
“Stop interrupting,” he told her simply, and with a huff, she subsided. “What fears she has are kept way below the surface because she doesn’t like to admit to having any. She’s tough enough to hold her own against anyone, and compassionate enough to tolerate an uncomfortable situation rather than hurt someone’s feelings. She’s controlled, and she’s passionate. She has a taste for the best champagne and junk food. There’s no one I’ve known who’s annoyed me quite so much, or who I’d trust quite so implicitly.”
She let out a long breath. It wasn’t the first time he’d put her in a position where words were hard to come by. “Not an entirely admirable woman.”
“Not entirely,” Blake agreed. “But a fascinating one.”
She smiled, then sat on his lap. “I’ve always wanted to do this,” she murmured, snuggling. “Sit on some big corporate executive’s lap in an elegant office. I’m suddenly quite sure I’d rather be fascinating than admirable.”
“I prefer you that way.” He kissed her, but lightly.
“You’ve chased off my nervous breakdown again.”
He brushed at her hair, thinking he was close—very close—to winning her completely. “We aim to please.”
“Now if I just didn’t have to go back down and face all that sugar.” She sighed. “And all those earnestly concerned faces.”
“What would you rather do?”
Linking her hands around his neck, she laughed and drew back. “If I could do anything I wanted?”
“Anything.”
Thoughtfully she ran her tongue over her teeth then grinned. “I’d like to go to the movies, a perfectly dreadful movie, and eat pounds of buttered popcorn with too much salt.”
“Okay.” He gave her a friendly slap on the bottom. “Let’s go find a dreadful movie.”
“You mean now?”
“Right now.”
“But it’s only four o’clock.”
He kissed her, then hauled her to her feet. “It’s known as playing hookey. I’ll fill you in on the way.”
She made him feel young, foolishly young and irresponsible, sitting in a darkened corner of the theater with a huge barrel of popcorn on his lap and her hand in his. When he looked back over his life, Blake could remember no time when he hadn’t felt secure—but irresponsible? Never that. Having a multimillion dollar business behind him had ingrained in him a very demanding sense of obligation. However much he’d benefited growing up, having enough and always the best, there’d always been the unspoken pressure to maintain that standard—for himself, and for the family business.
Because he’d always taken that position seriously, he was a cautious man. Impulsiveness had never been part of his style. But perhaps that was changing a bit—with Summer. He’d had the impulse to give her whatever she’d wanted that afternoon. If it had been a trip to Paris to eat supper at Maxim’s, he’d have arranged it then and there. Then again, he should have known that a box of popcorn and a movie were more her style.
It was that style—the contrast of elegance and simplicity—that had drawn him in from the first. He knew, without question, that there would never be another woman who would move him in the same way.
Summer knew it had been days since she had fully relaxed. In fact, she hadn’t been able to relax at all since the accident with anyone but Blake. He’d given her support, but more importantly, he’d given her space. They hadn’t been together often over the past week, and she knew Blake was closing the deal with the Hamilton chain. They’d both been busy, preoccupied, pressured, yet when they were alone and away from Cocharan House, they didn’t talk business. She knew how hard he’d worked on this purchase—the negotiations, the paperwork, the endless meetings. Yet he’d put all that aside—for her.
Summer leaned toward him. “Sweet.”
“Hmm?”
“You,” she whispered under the dialogue on the screen. “You’re sweet.”
“Because I found a dreadful movie?”
With a chuckle, she reached for more popcorn. “It is dreadful, isn’t it?”
“Terrible, which is why the theater’s nearly empty. I like it this way.”
“Antisocial?”
“No, it just makes it easier—” leaning closer, he caught the lobe of her ear between his teeth “—to indulge in this sort of thing.”
“Oh.” Summer felt the thrill of pleasure start at her toes and climb upward.
“And this sort of thing.” He nipped at the cord of her neck, enjoying her quick little intake of breath. “You taste better than the popcorn.”
“And it’s excellent popcorn.” Summer turned her head so that her mouth could find his.
So warm, so right. Summer felt it was almost possible to say that her lips were made to fit his. If she’d believed in such things… If she’d believed in such things, she might have said that they’d been meant to find each other at this stage of their lives. To meet, to clash, to attract, to merge. One man to one woman, enduringly. When they were close, when his lips were heated on hers, she could almost believe it. She wanted to believe it.
He ran a hand down her hair. Soft, fresh. Just the touch of that and no more could make him want her unreasonably. He never felt stronger than when he was with her. And he never felt more vulnerable. He didn’t hear the explosion of sound and music from the speakers. She didn’t see the sudden kaleidoscope of color and movement on the screen. Hampered by the small seats, they shifted in an effort to get that much closer.
“Excuse me.” The young usher, who had the job until September when school started up again, shifted his feet in the aisle. Then he cleared his throat. “Excuse me.”
Glancing up, Blake noticed that the house lights were on and the screen was blank. After a surprised moment, Summer pressed her mouth against his shoulder to muffle a laugh.
“Movie’s over,” the boy said uncomfortably. “We have to—ah—clear the theater after every show.” Glancing at Summer, he decided any man might lose interest in a movie with someone like her around. Then Blake stood, tall, broad shouldered, with that one aloofly raised eyebrow. The boy swallowed. And a lot of guys didn’t like to be interrupted.
“Ah—that’s the rule, you know. The manager—”
“And reasonable enough,” Blake interrupted when he noticed the boy’s Adam’s apple working.
“We’ll just take the popcorn along,” Summer said as she rose. She tucked the barrel under one arm and slid her other through Blake’s. “Have a nice evening,” she told the usher over her shoulder as they walked out.
When they were outside, she burst out laughing. “Poor child, he thought you were going to manhandle him.”
“The thought crossed my mind, but only very briefly.”
“Long enough for him to get nervous about it.” After climbing into the car, she placed the popcorn in her lap. “You know what he thought, don’t you?”
“What?”
“That we were having an illicit affair.” Leaning over, she nipped at Blake’s ear. “The ki
nd where your wife thinks you’re at the office, and my husband thinks I’m shopping.”
“Why didn’t we go to a motel?”
“That’s where we’re going now.” Nibbling on popcorn again, she sent him a wicked glance. “Though I think in our case we might substitute my apartment.”
“I’m willing to be flexible. Summer…” He drew her against his side as they breezed through a light. “Just what was that movie about?”
Laughing, she let her head lay against his shoulder. “I haven’t the vaguest idea.”
Later, they lay naked in her bed, the curtains open to let in the light, the windows up to let in the breeze. From the apartment below came the repetitive sound of scales being played, a bit unsteadily, on the piano. Perhaps she’d dozed for a short time, because the sunlight seemed softer now, almost rosy. But she wasn’t in any hurry for night to fall.
The sheets were warm and wrinkled from their bodies. The air was ripe with supper smells—grilling pork from the piano teacher’s apartment, spaghetti sauce from the newlyweds next door. The breeze carried the mix of both, appealingly.
“It’s nice,” Summer murmured, with her head nestled in the curve of her lover’s shoulder. “Just being here like this, knowing that anything there is to do can be done just as well tomorrow. You probably haven’t played hookey enough.” She was quite sure she hadn’t.
“If I did, the business would suffer and the board would begin to grumble. Complaining’s one of their favorite things.”
Absently, she rubbed the bottom of her foot over the top of one of his. “I haven’t asked you about the Hamilton chain because I thought you probably got enough of that at the office, and from the press, but I’d like to know if you got what you wanted.”